“No!” She tossed her blonde hair and marched angrily away, the clop clop of heels on wood telegraphing her fury.
You’d think I’d asked her to torture puppies or renounce chocolate forever, when I had simply suggested—very kindly—that she change into something slightly less revealing for dinner with my boss and her husband. And perhaps remove a bit of the lipstick and eye shadow she must have applied with a spackling trowel.
“Honey,” I said, tapping tentatively. The response was a thunk as an unknown object (shoe? hairbrush?) struck the bedroom door.
Such is life when mothering a three-year-old!